


neither kind nor good

by lightningwaltz



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Darkfic, Gen, community: asoiaf_exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/pseuds/lightningwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lacking an heir of any kind, Roose Bolton brings Ramsay Snow to the Dreadfort. The Lady of the Dreadfort is displeased by this turn of events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	neither kind nor good

**Author's Note:**

> This fic's recipient asked for creepyfic about Roose, Ramsay or Qyburn. Managed to work in two out of three, so not too shabby! Inspiration came when I was looking at one of the ASoIaF wikis and noticed that Roose Bolton’s first wife (Beth Ryswell) died soon after Roose brought Ramsay to the Dreadfort. From a “fever,” supposedly, but come on.
> 
> This was written a couple weeks before A Dance With Dragons came out, and some details are not aligned with canon anymore. The basic gist of it seems to be, though.

Early in their marriage, Roose Bolton had discovered that Bethany Ryswell had a pleasant reading voice, and singularly orderly penmanship. Owing to those gifts, she had found herself appointed to the task of answering all missives sent to the Dreadfort. In earlier days she had labored to keep her voice steady as a servant placed leeches on her husband’s body (he preferred to combine tasks if at all possible, though he had never said as much to her.) Now there was no need for such caution. The routine was so commonplace as to be almost dull, and blood no longer startled her.

 

Though, once in a great while, Roose’s decisions would. “There will be one final letter tonight, Bethany.”

 

Obliging, she reached for a sheet of paper, smoothing it down on the table. “Addressed to whom?”

 

The longer her husband waited to speak, the more import he placed on what was said. “I am sending for my bastard son, Ramsay Snow.”

 

For the first time in nearly a decade, Bethany failed to immediately follow instructions. Instead she looked directly towards him, saying nothing. It was startlingly easy to take on a spouse’s mannerisms, particularly when one lived in such isolation.

 

“You are surprised.” There might even have been a hint of commiseration in his voice, but that was so much guesswork.

 

“Not particularly.”

 

When Bethany had given birth to Domeric, her first and only child, the effort had nearly killed her. In the aftermath, the midwife had cautioned her that she unlikely to have more children. Since no additional heirs had been forthcoming, the woman most likely had had the right of it. Her son had been well guarded for his entire existence. Through a preoccupation with death, the Boltons had amassed an accidental wealth of knowledge about the prolonging of life. Somehow, despite all that, Domeric had died of a fever before his ninth nameday. The loss had been so sudden that it sometimes took her breath away when she paused to think about it.

 

Once again the room was filled with the sound of pen on parchment.

 

“You must have a great deal of faith in this Ramsay.”

 

“Not in the slightest. By all accounts he is sly and pointlessly cruel.” Roose sounded utterly disinterested for all that he was deciding the future of his House.

 

The purpose of the letter could be conveyed in very few sentences. Beth had learned long ago that it was always better to be succinct. “And yet you invite him here.” There was always risk involved in questioning her husband, but she was no maidservant to be intimidated.

 

“It is my experience that bastards are pathetically eager to be acknowledged. Do you not find that to be the case?”

 

Bethany had rarely given the matter a passing thought. “That may be so.”

 

“Since I am deprived of a true heir, I will have to make do with loyalty.”

 

“Your pragmatism is to be commended, my lord.” She signed the dispatch with his name.

 

Her husband chose to ignore her sardonic tone. “Have you finished?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Very well. You may leave.”

-

 

_In the month following Domeric’s death, Bethany could not shake her conviction that her son had been poisoned. He had reached the age where children tended to live, after all, and his illness had struck no other inhabitant of the Dreadfort. When she shared her suspicions with Roose Bolton, he had permitted her to take the cook into custody in the dungeons below the castle._

_The more the man protested his innocence, the more Beth became certain of his guilt. The more he failed to name others who were responsible, the more she was convinced he deserved to die. When she couldn’t stand his voice anymore, she chose to make an end of it and called for someone to bring her the skinning knife. Her husband rarely chose to do this to prisoners, but she had witnessed it every time. She knew the steps to this, and could recall them even with screaming as a distraction. When she turned to face her husband, her hands and face flecked with blood, there had been an odd sort of regard for her in his pale eyes. She had seen it just once before, when he had shown her the room that housed the flayed skins of ancient Starks, and Bethany had taken in the sight without flinching._

-

 

As her husband’s bastard rode into view, Bethany’s first conscious thought was that he was an unfortunate looking man. There were echoes in his features of an attractive woman, whoever she had been, but the same traits on Ramsay were entirely ugly. She almost laughed at that, but schooled her features into perfect calm as Roose made quick introductions.

 

“Welcome to the Dreadfort, Snow,” she said coolly.

 

Ramsay’s smiled at the sound of his last name, and it was angry. What would he have had her call him? He was no lord, no knight. He had no titles of his own, not yet. “Aye, I mean to be, m’ lady.”

 

It was a declaration, Bethany was sure of it. There would be no peace between the two of them.

-

 

The atmosphere in the Dreadfort changed perceptibly, nearly overnight. It had never been a cheerful place, and in an odd sort of way that had suited Bethany. The servants had been timid, but soon every single one of them seemed more fearful than ever. It took a month before one especially bold chambermaid came to Beth with tales of Ramsay’s misbehavior.

 

In turn, Bethany brought the news to her husband. Roose Bolton responded by placing Ramsay in charge of the dungeons.

 

“Is it wise to reward him thus?” She asked.

“You know as well as I that Ramsay is a disappointment. However I have no doubt he will prove adept at overseeing the dungeons.”

 

“Ah, yes, and it’s even less wise make use of an opportunity?”

 

“Correct.”

-

 

_After some time passed, doubts about her actions crept up on her. Perhaps Domeric truly had been killed by a arbitrary illness. When she cautiously broached the subject with Roose, he could not confirm or deny her question._

_“It is unlikely we will ever know. I find it’s worthwhile to enact one’s vengeance, even when the gods aren’t kind enough to give us an obvious target.”_

_Despite her newfound disquiet, Beth was inclined to agree._

-

 

Roose Bolton instincts that Ramsay would thrive due to his new responsibilities had merit. Snow even befriended one of the prisoners, as unlikely as that seemed, and freed his new companion (a raper and murderer, if Bethany recalled correctly) from captivity. She avoided his company assiduously, but every so often conversation could not be helped.

 

“I am glad you have found a new companion,” she said during one such occasion. Her words were laced with venom.

 

Ramsay smiled easily, which was a mannerism he had not inherited from his father. “He says you remind him of his first woman, as it happens.”

 

First kill, no doubt. “A kind thing to say. His stench is rather off-putting, though. Perhaps you should see to that?”

 

Ramsay shrugged. “Reek says he was in the dungeons for so long he prefers to smell like them forever.”

 

Bethany was taken aback, initially hearing “Reek” as “Ric,” the common diminutive for her son’s name. Perhaps that was the point. “What an apt pet name,” she said at last, abruptly exhausted and wanting Ramsay gone from her sight.

-

 

Following the arrest of Ned Stark, far to the south in King’s Landing, the Dreadfort was awash in letters from all factions. Bethany answered them all, darkly amused as her husband’s stated intentions changed based on the respondent.

 

“Tomorrow I will leave you and Ramsay at the Dreadfort, and join my forces with Robb Stark,” Roose informed her one evening, ending her own curiosity over what he would choose to do.

 

“I would prefer to go with you,” she said at once, forcing back a sudden rush of panic.

 

Roose did not seem shocked at her reaction, but he was rarely unsettled by anything. “You are needed here, and you must be aware of that. I know you well enough to believe you will handle matters capably.”

 

I don’t doubt my capabilities, but I do doubt your son, she wanted to scream, but didn’t.

 

In the morning, the Lord and Lady Bolton went to war on two different fronts.

-

 

That year, gossip in the North generally revolved around battles, but the death of the Lady of the Dreadfort caused a minor stir in surrounding villages.

 

“Well, I heard his bastard son had her buried alive.”

 

“The woman only died of a fever.”

 

“Don’t be stupid. Haven’t you heard the stories coming out of the Dreadfort? I’d believe it.”


End file.
